


The Arc of Grieving

by Missy



Category: Burn Notice
Genre: Comfort Sex, Grief, Multi, Polyfidelity, Romance, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-31
Updated: 2011-07-31
Packaged: 2017-10-22 01:24:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/232166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Missy/pseuds/Missy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fiona's just lost Sean, but she'll always have Michael and Sam to love her, even when she's not very lovable.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Arc of Grieving

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Porn Battle XII, prompt: Burn Notice, Sam Axe/Michael Westen/Fiona Glenanne, comfort. Thanks to Amber for beta.

As they returned from Sean’s funeral the night sky poured down over their heads like a black velvet quilt, stars blurred like a child’s chalk drawing; the atmosphere oppressive and steamy, staining Fiona’s black dress with sweat as she entered the loft.

Somehow, she got herself to the kitchen counter and sank there, numbly, staring right ahead with a cup of lukewarm tea as the men did their nightly chores. She was aware of the typical sounds they made; Sam jingling his keys in his pocket before tossing them on the counter; Michael opening and closing the refrigerator, and the sound of a yogurt cup top being peeled back. Fiona was a mess in the way only Fiona could become a mess, her motions jerky, her cheeks sunken with grief, her tears expelled by hours of loud weeping into her open palms. The men in her life reacted the way they always did in such situations; Sam catered to her whims. Michael kept his distance and at his yogurt, likely planning the next case, the next distraction, hoping to drag her back to the surface world. Fiona sat outside of herself, hearing the clock tick and feeling the chill of the icebox on her back – unable to dream, think or focus, only remembering Sean’s eyes, the look of mild surprise in them. …Suddenly, she didn’t want any more, could no longer fathom the weight of a full meal or the tedium of another conversation.

She stood up, her cup empty. Sam was there , treating her like a fragile doll, trying to make her sit down again, and she pushed his hands away. “Fuck off,” she muttered, but he reached for her again.

“Sam,” Michael said, on a rising, warning note –he wasn’t as used to Fiona’s unpredictability, but Sam plunged along without heed.

“Easy,” he demanded from her, and her nails bit into the back of his neck. She knew he expected her to cry, so she grasped his chin and yanked him forward, mashing her mouth against his.

She heard Michael freeze behind her, and without turning around she knew that he was confused by her sudden passion. The three of them had made love in a thousand combinations, most of them daubed with good humor and intense passion. This was different; the air held sorrow and desperation. Sam’s returned kiss was reluctant, and his hand cautiously stroked her back. Then she felt Michael’s hand encircle the back of her neck, rubbing, feeling her muscles work.

She let them undress her like a rag doll, knowing them by the geography of their touches. Sam’s touch felt as if he were trying to keep her from breaking, dusting over her breasts and brushing her stomach. Michael gripped her side and breasts as he unclasped her bra and slid a hand down the back of her panties to knead her ass. Fiona stood, uncomplaining, between them, letting them satisfy themselves by touching her – they needed that assurance that she was whole and alive.

She held Michael by the ears and caressed his lips with her own before she kissed him; the bittersweet tang of his mouth, the little cry he made, the sudden tightening of his fingers on her shoulder – all of them signaled ‘Michael’; all of them told her she was alive, and so was he. Sam was kneeling in front of her, sucking her nipples in turn, flicking the tips of his fingers over what he had uncovered, head bowed, lashes down, large calloused hands working. She held him by the back of his neck and he sucked with determination on each point, biting the tips in frustration when she leaned back into Michael’s arms.

At last, biology saved her, bore away her mind. Heat spread over her body, teasing her with the promise of more, and she held Sam as he kissed her stomach before picking her up. He and Michael bore her to the bed and spread her out, removing her dress, the panties, before undressing each other quickly and pressing fleeting kisses of their own to one another’s mouths and bodies. She watched, quiet, as they came to her; they were often all together this way, all three of them touching and stroking, and when she lost herself in the fascinating sight of the two of them they shifted suddenly to touch her. Sam between her feet on the bed, his torso spreading over the sheets like a blanket, and Michael sitting naked behind her on the pillow between the back wall and her shoulders. He played with her breasts while Sam kissed his way up her thighs, ending at the soft, heated juncture between them.

She turned toward Michael and kissed his smooth chest, the ripples of his abdomen, and the softness of his lips; she stroked his cock and bit his neck. Michael was only semi-hard by the time Sam’s diligent work had shortened Fiona’s breath; Sam was easier in this way; he grew hard simply from the scent and taste of Fi, from rubbing himself against the sheets. His hands clutched her thighs and tugged them up, making her as helpless as she ever could be. Michael reached down, cupping her mons and using his index and middle fingers to spread apart the folds of her sex. Sam had easier access to her clit now and attacked it with gusto. It was great, almost painfully great, and normally she’d have slid away ages ago.

But Fi couldn’t come. She didn’t even know if she wanted to come, though Sam was working her over as hard as he possibly could with all the finesse of his tongue and fingers, though Michael was holding and stroking and kissing her. Her middle cramped from the frustrated passion forming like a storm cloud within her, building and growing like a living presence in her soul, until finally she grabbed Sam’s hair and pulled him up.

“Come inside,” she demanded, needing him. Fi had a tendency to link Sam with comfort, Michael with excitement, and for once she needed the former more than the later. “Let me suck it,” she demanded of Michael. Both men followed her orders, Sam managing to enter her while Michael knelt on the pillow beside her head.

At the moment of his slow, gentle entrance, she looked up into Sam’s eyes, dark and thoughtful, looking down and watching her face. “Warm,” he murmured, rubbing her cheek. Fi took Michael down her throat and he kissed the top her head, agreeing with Sam. She was alive.

And they were a well-coordinated machine; Michael knew to pull out when Sam thrust forward, so Fi never knew where the next bit of stimulation was coming from. She managed to lick the underside of Michael’s cock on every slow-burning thrust down her throat; she got a hand around his balls and, cupping them, tugged gently on the sac while she pleasured the tip of his cock with her tongue. It felt good to give, to feed him, to lavish him with this one bit of pleasure; she evened the score on Sam, squeezing him with her vaginal muscles, making him grit his teeth and grunt. She was so absorbed in pleasing both of them that she never knew which of them got her off; there were two hands between her legs, trying to fondle her clit. The tension grew until she was sure she’d implode from it. She flicked her tongue against the head of Michael’s cock until he shouted and she sucked him down her throat. A forefinger and thumb pinched her clit.

Everything snapped. Michael pulled out of her mouth and she screamed the way she wanted to when Claire died, when her brother stopped breathing in her arms, when she blew up her first bank with her best friend inside of it. Her knees drew up and she convulsed, squeezing Sam as tightly as she could, her expression entirely blank. Then the tension left her body in a huge rush and her head rolled sideways. Somewhere, vaguely, she felt Sam’s throbbing within and felt another, milder relief. He’d gone over somehow; she’d done it. Now she didn’t need to move again.

And then there was blacknesss.

She came around to the sight of Michael’s flared nostrils and the percussive tune of his palm slapping her cheek, his commanding “Fi? Fi! Fi!’s calling her back to life. Sam, meanwhile, sat back on his heels, white-faced, staring down at her in blank horror.

They really did need her to do everything. Grabbing Michael’s palm, she squeezed and twisted back the fingers hard, until he gasped and pulled away. She turned her head and fixed Sam with her glare.

“Honestly. Can’t a woman get excited without someone making a circus of it?”

There was an exhalation. “Jesus Christ,” Sam groaned, hiding his face in his palm. Hadn’t he ever given a woman la petite morte? Incredulity stained Fiona’s features, but she loved that he loved her enough to care.

Fiona reached up, cupping Michael’s worried face and giving it a gentle kiss before reaching for Sam, who grabbed her and held her as if she’d disappear.

The glow of accomplishment disappeared from her, receding into a memory. She would disappear one day, just like Sean.

Gently, she pushed Sam away. “I need to sleep.” Fi felt Michael’s mouth brush the back of her neck, a flutter of a touch, before the two of them arranged her in their double-sized queen; Sam as the mattress she leaned on, Michael on the only free pillow, the white sheets arranged in a ruffle around her shoulder like a party dress.

Michael got an arm around them both, somehow. Fiona needed nothing else; not the night sky, or the weak spirit of the tea on the kitchen counter. Just weakness and peace. She felt Sam’s chin brush her head and she stared at the ceiling.

“It’s okay,” Michael reminded her, running his hands through her hair the way he used to back in Dublin when he’d make her so angry. “You’re here with us. We got them all, and no one’s going to hurt you.”

“Yeah,” Sam echoed, his voice much lower. “The sex isn’t all that, Fi. Sometimes love’s the important thing.” She glanced at his face just to watch the incredulous look overtake it. They’d all changed.

Fiona knew it was all right as she closed her burning eyes against Sam’s chest. She had her boys, and they were her anchors. They would not bend, knowing she’d be her fiery, tart self again in time, and all of them were old enough to understand it. Maybe someday she’d even laugh again.

But not tonight.


End file.
